The Perils of Being a Damaged Robin
by Vampykitty-kun
Summary: Multi-Robin headcanons concerning 'issues' that came long before the job. Most 'stories' will be Jason or Tim, with some concerning Damian and Dick. No true pairings for any story, just slight hints if you squint.
1. Jason: Sleep

Jason often stays awake days at a time, only finally getting some sleep when he simply can no longer function and starts making stupid mistakes. He then crashes, in a bed if at all possible at his current location, and sleeps in one of the upper corners of the mattress curled into a tight ball on his side occupying the smallest space possible. He is however capable of sleeping _anywhere_, on _anything, _and is an extremely light sleeper. When he had first come back to Gotham after his death, he had taken things to the extreme, gotten hurt far too many times because of it, and had fallen asleep on the job more times than he would ever willingly admit, often foiling his own plans.

This issue originated long before he was Robin, before his mother's death, back when he never could be sure that one of the sleazy scumbags his mom brought home weren't going to sneak into his bedroom well after she had passed out. He had learned early on.

His sleeping habits when Bruce had taken him in perplexed both he and Alfred. Many nights those first few months, both men would find him tucked into the most random crevasses of the manor at odd awkward hours. Under desks, in closets, in dark corners of the hallway. And no matter where Jason slept, no matter how _little_ he slept, there were always nightmares. There were many instances in which Bruce had to force him to get some rest, with much failure in the beginning. Bruce was against regular use of sleeping aids, but was for a long while unsure of how to fix the issue. Sitting in an arm chair next to Jason's bed, offering to watch over him until he fell asleep only unnerved the boy further, completely restless at having eyes boring into him as he lay in bed.

Locking him within the room was only attempted once, with much regret, as Jason had had a full scale panic attack when he had discovered he was trapped, resulting in a broken lamp, skinned knuckles, some fractured toes, and a long crack running up the bottom of the door.

One night Bruce awoke to random vibrations, only to find Jason tucked in the corner of the king sized bed against the headboard, twitching spasticly with one of his nightmares. Bruce had never heard him enter the room, never felt him climb onto the bed, and had no doubt that if Jason hadn't started having that nightmare, he would have awoken in the morning never having known the boy had even been there. With this realization, he had gently run a hand through Jason's hair, immediately stopping whatever terror going on in the boy's mind, and drifted back off to sleep with his fingers still carding through Jason's hair. Sometime in the morning he had felt Jason startle awake and flee the room. Bruce thought that would be the end of it.

Instead, afterwards it became almost a nightly occurrence.

With time, Jason stopped eventually stopped bolting in the morning.

Just before Jason's death, it had only just started becoming a regular occurrence that Bruce was waking _him_ up in the morning. There had finally been progress.

After his death it was Bruce that could no longer sleep.

Even now Jason still has his problems.

On occasion, when he's had a particularly bad week, and he is at the final stretch of his exhaustion, he will curl up, jacket pulled tight around him atop Wayne manor's roof.

Above Bruce's room.

Because even after all this time, even with all the bad blood between them, Bruce is still…_safe_


	2. Jason: Food

Jason has 'food issues'.

One cannot grow up in an unstable household, then live on the streets, and avoid such a thing.

Many a times Jason was responsible for feeding not only himself, but his mother, who was often times too looped or ill to remember to feed herself, let alone her son. The kitchen was always empty as there was rarely money to grocery shop due to her habit, and when Jason did manage to skim money away from her, what little shopping he was able to do never did last long. He never did think poorly of her however, no matter what happened over the years, and he did his best to make the most of a poor situation. He was always hungry, but at the very least they were not starving, and he always made damned sure that his mother ate what he gave her.

When his mother died, he fled, and he ended up on his own, food was extremely scarce. He had picked through trashcans at the back of fast food joints, gotten into his fair share of scuffles with the other homeless, and often was lucky to scrounge up little more than enough to pick at throughout the day, to make the hunger pains bearable. Because of this, he learned quickly to pick at locks, turn off store alarms, and get away with a bit of food before sneaking out of convenience stores and locking back up. He wore oversized hoodies just so he could walk through a market street, stuff, and run and come away with enough bread and fruit to last a few days. This was not something possible in the winter months however when the market streets were nonexistent.

He resorted to stealing most of his food. Often times he had to fight to keep from having his stolen food stolen from him as the day went on as well. He learned to fight, to move fast, and to climb early on just to avoid confrontation, escape store owners, and outsmart the police the few times they had gotten to the location before he could flee.

Before he found his one bedroom apartment in the boarded up abandoned building, keeping anything personal, even just food was impossible for more than a few days, sometimes only a few hours.

More often than not, he burned far more calories than he took in each day running from anyone and anything, so he was always too thin, always overly hungry, but he managed. He dealt with it and he survived.

He made friends with the working girls, chatting it up with them as they stood shivering in their skimpy outfits on the cold Gotham nights. He treated them with respect, never judged their actions, and at times was even a bit protective of them. They were fond of him. Sometimes if they felt particularly sorry for him, and was having a bad run, they'd slip him a few bucks for the hotdog stand. Chili dogs were a rare treat that he looked forward to. Sometimes if the ones with kids of their own had a baby sitter fall through they allowed him to watch them, giving him a small chunk of change for his troubles, a nice hot meal, and a warm bed to sleep in for the night with nothing else expected of him.

When he began boosting tires, which brought in more money than he was used to (although far more dangerous, and painful if caught), he would spend it all on food. Non-perishables. He would then hide things throughout the neighborhood in places he didn't think anyone would ever look, always watching over his shoulder to make sure no one ever saw him hoard his food away. He didn't dare carry money or food on him for long. Most places were up high, in places most people could not reach, or places only someone his size could squeeze into. He'd hide small things behind loose bricks, in trees, on rickety old fire-escapes on abandoned buildings. He rarely felt at ease enough to store any of it in his apartment. His posters, his trinkets... they were all nice, he liked having them, but they were not important. They could be replaced if need be. The food was essential for life, there was never enough, and he couldn't afford for it to be stolen.

When he first ended up at the manor, this did not stop, and it in fact got worse. He would hide food all around the manor. It was not hard. Most rooms were not touched. There were lots of small places to keep stashes. Lots of high perches above eye level to place things for safe keeping. He did not like asking Alfred for food, and instead chose to sneak it from the fridge or cabinets at odd awkward hours, or when everyone else was down in the cave, pulling it from hiding places at will with need. He never did turn it down when offered to him however.

For the first week this went unnoticed.

Then Alfred found out.

Alfred gradually had his suspicions. Finding something stashed here or there as he cleaned. At first he ignored the situation all together, returning things to cabinets, or threw out stale bread and bruised fruit. It was only after he found the plastic bag out in the garden underneath the rose bush, stuffed full of stale cookies, cut ends of bread loafs, and any bent piece of silverware they owned that Alfred had only kept in the drawers for sentimental reasons that he took action.

When Jason had seen Alfred walk into the house, bag in hand, he had tried bolting. He had assumed that he was done for, that they were going to kick him out (the bag had been there specifically in case they- _when_ they kicked him out, so he had something to run with) that there would be repercussions, after all, he was stealing from a rich man... he was stealing from _Batman_.

Much to Alfred's relief, Bruce had caught him before he had gotten very far from the front door. Jason had bit him trying to get away, thrashing and clawing, until Bruce managed to tell him that they weren't mad, that they weren't making him go anywhere, that they only wanted to know why he was doing what he was doing.

He and Bruce had tried to wean him off food hoarding slowly, being sure they offered him meals frequently, making sure they checked rooms, and corners, and shelves regularly. Jason was allowed sealed food in his room, in reasonable, sanitary amounts.

After two years, shortly before his death, he had finally been comfortable enough to just have some snacks in his pockets for safe keeping, a tin of Alfred cookies in his nightstand.

After his death, it all went right back out the window coming back with a vengeance.

He remembered very little of his time on the streets before Talia had found him, just that he had never hesitated to grab food, that he took it often by any means, and that he did in fact share it with whoever needed it.

Ra's had been disgusted with his habits. Disturbed with everything that he was really. Talia had coddled him and clung tightly in those days, always putting food in his hands, making sure he was never without a guard, never alone with her father lingering around.

When she had thrown him into the pit, and had then thrown him into the water with a parting kiss as she shoved a bag into his hands he had still been half delirious. She had provided many a things that had upset him emotionally, but had given him things to survive. Money and food.

As he had traveled, going where she had told him to go, staying with whom she told him to stay with as his hurt/hate/rage ran his life, he had still carried a plethora of food at all times.

When he had returned to Gotham, he had set up several safe houses, all fully stocked with weaponry, all with plenty of food reserves. They were all run own, with minimal furnishings, top floors, and impenetrable unless the person attempting a break in was keen on losing a hand, or worse (or of course was of the Bat-clan, as they all had their ways) but he had still resorted to stashing duffle bags filled with substance around the city (he had exchanged those for backpacks after the heads… unable to associate food, or anything else for that matter with the gore).

When he had traveled with Donna and Kyle, they had said nothing, much to his relief, choosing to ignore his habits rather than comment on them.

When Bruce had 'died', Tim had released him from prison, and Bruce had dared to slap him in the face with a reality he had tried to forget in his final parting words, he had grieved. He had grieved hard. He hadn't slept, he hadn't eaten, and the city was in shambles. Later on he had regretted acting out so strongly during his time as the bat, but perhaps it had been for the best. It had snapped both Tim and Dick back on track, and had allowed him to pull himself together in peace.

Until he had grabbed Sasha of course.

Adopting strays had been contagious he had found out.

He had treated her well. Fed her well, nursed her wounds, and gave her back her pride. Ignored her flirting both at his disinterest, inability to give more love than he was already giving, and for her own wellbeing.

He had missed her in Arkham, but had also felt it better for her to be away from his madness.

Arkham was also hell on his sanity.

Not enough food.

Not enough safe.

Too quiet.

Too loud.

No control over his world.

He had felt the little sanity he had gained since his rebirth fading fast all because Dick had been a _dick_.

The transfer had helped. So long as it wasn't sharp and able to be used as a weapon, the prison guards cared little about the food in his cell. And he had gotten work done as well rather than having to sit around doing nothing but thinking.

When he had been freed, and he had escaped with Sasha, it had taken him very little time to decide that she was truly better off without him, that he was hardly capable of taking care of himself, let alone a girl in her mid-teens from a mental standpoint. She had protested, harshly, at first. But when she had seen her mother at the park, an arrangement he had made in advance, things had fallen back into place.

He had left them with a large sum of cash, told them to use it wisely, and he had left her with a hug.

Then before he knew it he was on a strange island, naked, with Dick's ex as a caretaker. And then shortly after he had felt it necessary to spare Roy from a less than pleasant fate.

Somehow along the line he had even taken to bonding over food with Tim of all people, and had been forced to admit once distracted with said food, that he was not as he had made him out to be, and even had issues of his own.

And as much as Jason hates to admit it, being around others who have had similar problems in their lives helped a bunch.

The island has more food than the three of them could ever eat. No one judges one another, no one steals from one another, and no one questions the night terrors they each have. They keep each other grounded.

Although Jason is sure he will always have his food issues, he feels safe, sure of his surroundings, and sees little need to carry but a few things within his jacket pockets.

And if every now and then he feels the need to force a meal- or two, down Tim's throat because he's not eating as much as he should, and could… well, no one can blame him, and surely no one is telling.


End file.
